


A Thing for Using

by Draikinator



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Second Person, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Draikinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are more than the things that have been done to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thing for Using

Your fangs are digging into his wrist and the faint taste of burnt out wiring is on your glossae, not masked by the overbearing familiarity of half processed energon from his veins. Your dentae have crunched the plating into pulp in what feels like a single snap- you did have your jaw recalibrated a few hundred cycles ago. It’s stronger than it looks.

You dislodge your mouth from his forearm and you can feel hot pink fluid on your chin, and it isn’t yours. He’s just staring at you, baffled, staring, and you scramble back along the floor to the wall, vents flared, face slick, chest heaving.

You bit him.

* * *

 

The taste of his lip plates is intoxicating, better than every drug you’ve tried, or worse, you aren’t sure yet, but by the grace of Primus himself you want it to be good, this time.

And it is good. His hands are all over you- one between your thighs, massaging the seam lines of your waist, your panel, unstilled and not desperate- practiced, warm. His other is on your face, rubbing the hard edge of your cheek.

He’s careful, so careful, maybe a bit more than you’re used to or need, but the gesture is nice, that he knows, that he wants you to know he knows with every gentle stroke and every sloppy kiss that he’s paying attention, that he’ll stop, that it matters.

That you matter.

He doesn’t open his panel until after you do and then both your spikes are rubbing together between his fingers, slick with lubricant both natural and synthetic, and you aren’t sure you can handle it- it’s almost too much, but not quite, and you’re gasping in his lap suddenly, him struggling to stay upright on the berth that’s just knocked his knees out from under him, keep his mouth near yours even though you’re panting with yours. He’s breathing heavily through his throat vent, like he wants to breathe in whatever you breathe out and you’re almost overcome enough by everything that’s happening that it brings tears to your optics- but you’re too well practiced for that, which is almost a pity, because you kind of wonder how he would react.

You spasm suddenly, your overload a surprise, but maybe you were just that overwrought- it’s hard for you to tell sometimes, you’re still getting used to doing this for yourself and not for any obligation, but you like it, and you like that you like it and you hope it comes as easily to you some day as it seems to to other people. But right now your spinal strut is angled inward, your spike spurting, your valve sparking with energy and your mouth is open in a hard o, silent. It passes and he’s still pumping slowly, but you aren’t done.

You know you aren’t obligated, you know you don’t have to finish him, too, he keeps saying so, but you know if you don’t you’ll feel awful, and you’d rather deal with the minor discomfort now than the crushing guilt later, even if it is unwarranted. A issue for future you to deal with, but right now present Drift is sliding down Ratchet’s body, peppering hard, wet kisses to his blocky abdomen and then your mouth is on his spike.

It’s wide and fairly average in length, which you honestly like, because yes, you can unhinge your jaw for a blowjob, easy peasy, but it’s always sore later and it makes kissing after kind of weird. You can’t really get a hand around the base of it though to massage it while you suck, but you win some, you lose some, and you make the best of it with bobbing from the neck and billowing your tongue to make the head run into the underside of it. It feels like deep throating without the discomfort of actual deepthroating, and it leaves your hands free to roam his thighs instead of fisted in your lap, thumbs squeezed to white knuckled static to shut off your gag reflex.

He’s panting and moaning and mumbling incoherent syllables that sound probably like praise and you suppress a grin because your dentae are Decepticon sharp still and you’re very careful with them- but by Primus above do you love the praise. You might not be a huge fan of giving blowjobs, but there’s probably nothing better in the world than knowing how fucking good you are at them watching him come completely undone above you.

His right hand is behind him, supporting him as he leans back and his left is rubbing your right forearm encouragingly and you like the warm handprint it’s leaving. His thumb is massaging the seamlines, moving upward and he digs into the crook of your shoulder pleasantly, before it moves again to the back of your neck and helm, probably toward your finials because he knows you love it when he messes with them, but something is wrong wrong wrong and you don’t know why but it’s the wrongest you’ve ever felt and the floor is cold and the roof is concave and filled with holes and the night is freckled with stars you’ll never see and the stranger has his fingers around the base of your skull plating and he slams your face down into his crotch and you’re choking and the world is going dark and you can’t even scream and you’re pushing pushing pushing pushing pushing pushing and it isn’t working and it isn’t working and he jsudt keeps s s. Gg gogingg. And yo. U can. T focus any more an d

And you’re against the wall. There is energon on your chin. Your hands are shaking. He’s staring at you.

You bit him.

“I’m-” you start. You want to apologize but the words are trapped in your throat behind the memory of things done to you and you can’t, can’t make the words come. He looks at his wrist, and he looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s worry in his optics because he’s worried you’ve broken like a caged animal and he can’t touch you again because that’s all you are, a thing for using, “It’s okay. It’s fine. I can fix it.”

You press yourself against the wall because the air in the room is vanishing and you aren’t sure if you need it- do you breathe? You can’t remember. You just press yourself against the wall and try to flatten yourself into it and disappear, flat and breathless and gone.

He takes a step toward you, probably because you didn’t finish and he’s not done, and you snarl and then feel stupid but you can’t help it, you’re reacting but not thinking, thought processes only realizing what you’re doing after you do it. He steps back. Good. He should be afraid of you.

“I’m not going to touch you, okay? Drift. Look at me. It’s me. It’s Ratchet. You’re safe, you’re okay- okay?” He’s got both hands up passively and he’s moving toward you again and then, just like that, it’s true. You are okay.

You scramble back toward him and into him, face pressed against the glass of his windshield, breathing, but not crying, because you really don’t do that anymore, even when you want to, and you breathe and breathe and he rubs your face while you do until you let your cabling go lax and your vents shutter gently.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly, “I don’t know why- I just-”

“It’s really okay,” he says, and you can feel the energon on your face but he’s wiping it off with his fingers, “No real damage. Already rerouted local internal cabling to secondary support structures. A quick patch job and it’s fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I tried to,” you hiss, and he gives you this look and you swallow hard, “I don’t- I don’t know why-”

“You don’t have to talk about it. I won’t do that again.”

You shutter your optics and hide within your own optical darkness for a moment, gathering your calm. It’s okay. You’re okay. You weren’t always, and maybe still aren’t, actually, but you’re getting there.

“I think- I think I’m done for the night. Is that okay?”

“That’s okay.”

“Will you still stay?”

“I’ll still stay.”


End file.
